


Brush

by kalijean, SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [37]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 00:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1996: Just an act of kindness, on an icy day. After Bird in the Hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brush

"Windchill at minus seven, and do I get to go home? Nooooo. No, I get to come here, pick him up, drive him around like some kinda chauffeur, probably end up wasting the rest of my night in some kinda humanitarian act of stupidity for people too dense to just call the _police department_ and get a _uniform_ on it, 'cause y'know, there is a chain of command--" Ray swung open the door of the Canadian consulate, stepped in and pulled off his gloves, and shoved them into his pocket.

Well, at least it was warmer in here. And at least the Riv had a good heater, 'cause heck if he was gonna drag Fraser around like a good little chauffeur if he didn't have a warm car to--

Wait.

Ray turned around and walked back out. Immediately, the icy, dry air stung his formerly gloved hands, but he was too busy walking around the Mountie on the stoop, eying him critically, to notice.

Not surprisingly, Turnbull didn't move. Not even a flicked glance his way.

"You have got to be kidding me." Ray threw his hands up, shaking his head. "You have _got_ to be kidding me. Who spitballs a Mountie on a day like this? God, this really is the most stupid job. I can't believe they pay you to stand here in the middle of winter, freezing your rear off, just so people can throw spitballs at you. What, do they think that there's gonna be some mass invasion of rats or somethin'?"

He shook his head again, then reached up, unnecessarily saying, "Here, hold still." And he tried to brush the frozen little balls of paper off the side of Turnbull's face, carefully. There was a brief moment of something like (not-quite-but-a-cousin-to) panic that crossed the Mountie's face, all wide-eyed, but then it settled again with a blink.

Ray just kept trying to brush the spitballs off, gently. "I'm freezin' here. You're freezin' here. What, did you piss off Thatcher? Why's she bust your balls, anyway? Hey, you know, you did pretty good givin' everyone the runaround during that Gerrard thing. Thanks for that. There." The spitballs were gone, though they left behind brief little red marks, fading fast, on Turnbull's already windburned face. "You really oughta just jump at 'em and spook 'em someday when they do that kinda crap. Little brats."

And then Ray headed back inside again, shaking his hands out once he was in the warmth.

"Okay, Benny, I'm here. Let's go."


	2. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1996: Companion piece to Brush, takes place concurrently.

\--you're touching me.

I am somewhat used to your ranting by now. I have yet to understand its purpose; for what reason would a man so often continue _doing_ something he clearly _dislikes?_ It is perhaps an uncharitable thought, but I have to wonder why you don't simply get on with it. Your voice is not unpleasant. I just cannot fathom how one would go about appeasing you. Perhaps the ranting serves a purpose I have yet to divine.

I have nothing but time, standing sentry, and it does not appear as though matters will change any time soon, so I imagine I will figure it out eventually.

I can't say I disagree with your assessment of my current job. I don't suppose you can imagine what I've come from, what came before this. It is all right. Neither, often, can I. I'm rather puzzled you would take the time to rant on my behalf, in any case. Clearly you are feeling harassed enough by your occupation with Constable Fraser. If I could speak, I would assure you that you needn't expend any more on me. You gesticulate wildly and I have a strange sort of interest in your manner of motion at the same time as I have a minor urge to reach out and still your hands simply to see what it is you would do if I did.

I need not, in the end. You are touching me.

My cheeks are numb, but I most certainly feel your touch, and I am taken aback that you would step into my personal space in this fashion. The urge to grab your hands is brighter, now; I want to bat you away, but I do not. Your purpose is clear, and I feel guilt for that urge. I had not forgotten the spitballs, but I could no longer feel them, and as you brush them away the slight sting of dried paper tearing away from skin is given more contrast by the warmth of your fingers.

You rant even now, abrasive words on my behalf that are at odds with the care with which you remove the spitballs. The image of Inspector Thatcher literally punching me in the testicles flits through my mind before everything is halted by your compliment, and the warmth it leaves in my gut is followed quickly by a strange sadness I cannot identify.

I don't quite hear the last thing you say. Later, I will translate the sounds I remember into words and understand, but for now, you have gone.

The wind blows. I am cold, but I remember your compliment.


End file.
